Prose from December 2015: Endings and Beginnings

Endings and beginnings haunt the chamber.
turning the fragments over, were they even ever interwoven?
you can make yourself believe through timidity and angst that they were
receding into the noiselessness now, and the empty halls remain.

Preludes and epilogues reveal the sender.
first night in this house when a plague of dreams beleaguered.
chief among the eidolons, a skeleton pharaoh unable -
to rise from his underground asylum
- impenetrable palisade; his immutable and sacrosanct enclosure.

Departures and arrivals in a river of mirrors.
tall windows in the top of the castle tower, i just had to unlatch them
frustration like sweat in the eye - stings, pulls at the edges with a tentacles grip,
the fingers slip and the psyche shifts.
white snakes with orange stripes before a river - uneasily in the tension
waiting for the crossing
gather the choices folded into dice - into a cup tossing.

Inceptions and cessations begin in the earth and wash into the ocean.
no place at the table anymore, get packing.
if you see, please keep space for a passing recondite like me
- but I no longer expect it; am I zachariah in the tree?
easter pants got muddy playing in the street, animal child free.
keeping the ears turned, still looking for the fading beat.

Initiations and eggresions dissolving the boundaries.
my nakedness no longer alarms me, be what is raw is much more easily.
jump the gateways with a childhood ease.
these eyes no longer belie what is revealed beneath every existence.
happening always now, all the moments in unison -
to be a breaker between the stratums, not all that it is cracked the corn
to be.

-E Tajchman Dec. 2015

In the Forest at Night

Sounds of the beat of the heart
echo in the branches of the trees.

Each step falls through the ground when imagining unincorporated breath.
wandering through the trees with and an endless black sea falling all around.

Furrowed brows and sweaty chins, fade and reappear
in the shadows of the old houses. Houses abandoned long ago,
seen through other eyeball's perceptions on nights
yet to come.

Remains of the shadow reside inside
all the old structures of our soul's ghost.
Spirit host, shifting ceaselessly in the hallways
where the future's mistakes are repeating.
the only light between the awe of night and the leaves,
are glowing eyes, . . or the mind's lies?

Twigs break, dry leaves crunch, across the creek,
 even when the feet underneath have taken root.

Faces have forgotten how to form in the heart's binding.
winding through the forest faster and ever further now.
spider webs broken spider skulls shaken; a fear has taken hold.

why is there a calm always born from the depths of chaos
as if graces seizes the spine, tingling rising into the crown.

Then the feet have a notion to feel the height's of the sky's midnight ocean
the slight smell of chill in the shifting wind already taking hold.

Beats of the heart pumps adrenaline through every vein in curling toes.
leaping forth into the sky as the ephemeral body arose.
fear shatters as the -
ancient soul drives the body now higher into the night's sky.

In the end,
no amount of skin drives the quaking heart any further.
knowing that no one ever even really heard her,
splinter.

Bare branched trees reflect hands taking root.
bare skin knuckles circumspect on the found finally
concrete.

Fragments of the Dream Teachers

constrained like in a dream running uphill with all willpower focused but barely moving.
Always afraid to face the darkness inside the trees at night,
barriers of unkowable inception rooted in so many old and new angles.
One time pushing through and feeling the body deeply in a dream.
It is now a twisting series of connected spires twisting, dancing, bouncing slowly as the tentacles of the mind flow,
unconstrained.
It moves differently that is why it could not be utilized before.
In a dream, sitting outside the area of incarnated time;
feeling the spires that you are, move. Swirling slowly and quickly, feeling their physicality; in the air,
am the air.
driving a car except the foot will not reach the pedal, barricades distracting and then
pushing through again the foot on the pedal the car moving across the barricade down the hill.
the will is strong, the soul moves with your mind now push it where it needs to go.
the whole thing becomes what is, dynamic synergy erupting in a slow focused apparition.
Ephemoral blood
in the fingertips, no longer having hips you felt the spires of smoke that are
who the energy is we become.

Awareness of Self

Born with confidence into the supposed seven hells.
Awareness of the shifting heart and the tolling of the bells.

Minutes can be years in the mind of squabbling urchins.
When so much is given, even then the limbs - needles and pins.    

Cage unheeded, invisible inside all the provided smiles of the chosen.
Always out-of-the way, always howling but still unseen; frozen.

A singular navigation through the waves of encompassing vitality.
Memory sits on the edge of worlds & words before, disillusion of duality.

Consolation prizes no longer hold the heart in check.
Ears ringing reveals silence in the cave. Gold glimmers - a fleck.

The River is a Window

the river is a window
the fog is a way through and in.
the crow becomes another you when you want to change eyes.
it's the other side of the river now.
the other side.
The river is a window.
The crow's eye is where you are.
The wings through the fog rolling over the river in the morning
seeps into your blood.
Shimmering green pools of moss in the wet summertime
with your bike tires tangled deep in natures twisting embrace
of branches, flowers, seeds, blood feeders, buzz makers, flower shakers.
The river is a window.
The soul is shining there always.

9/27/2014
-Ed Tajchman

Wandering Hills of the Heart

Fulfilled and content in a dream with living creatures.

Roaming the wandering hills on an endless series of
unknown pathways through darkness with no sight of light.

Going forward through them because you need something new.

When the face gives away how broken you are despite
projecting the most imagined happiness.

It is because of the cold, because of the struggle to free the mind.

The aching to satisfy the heart with only what you have inside,
and what you can find hidden in the night sky when  you think
no one else is looking.

When the blisters on the toes burst,

When everything breaks again and you curse,

just when you think it can't get worse.

It is then you realize the beauty, the magic,

then endless whispering hills calling you forward,

calling you out of your den, into the eternal land

of the dreaming mind and the giving heart of Gaia.

Home is not a place to go back to but a state of the heart found in travel.

-Ed Tajchman

Slow Down and Talk Loud

Slowing it down. Everything around.

Faster then You think you talk,

even forgotten the way to walk.

Paper hearts hold no keys to contentment.

Vapors dart, lost into the breeze.

How to know when and if to flow,

is no easy task for a grand deceiver;

Ultimate receiver, unending pure of heart

believer.

-Ed Tajchman

Restless Human Animal

I never want to go back home anymore.

The feeling of belonging somewhere

falls into the sky. The deepest blue of

midnight's hour interrupted by golden light behind moons.

Every place I am now I live to be there.

So cracked and broken it's beautiful, okay to stare.

The wind changed suddenly and I was ready.

To take off, always had been half sprung like a cat.

Pacing encasing every walking hour I want to be free.

The void inside the heart brings me closer to where

I see the reflection of eyes unseen.

Always ready to be heard, everyone with a pure singing heart.

Projecting forward we will meet and create a new start.

-Ed Tajchman

As Summer Closes A Wish Remembered

Why does it matter anyway? revolving again in any ends.
In all the ways it could or would ever be it is.
I will never receive love in the way I think I need to.
Only in the ways that grace becomes me does it expand.

Resounding in joy's unspoken shadow, the footsteps fall always unheard.
In every grand hallway a smile of how it went down in the summer, shines across my face.
Unlaced shoes, unconstrained hues, no more blues infused in every grind of the teeth, I know
how to
breathe
now.

It shone full and brighter then any I had seen. A wish made on 7 generations in a place I had never been again. The landscape rolled like a bowl in a midnight blue, under golden glow of the moon.
The one sought since entering this strange place shines deepest in the heart that knows truth and faith both.
Seen in every waking memory.
Calls forward the effortless pulling through causeways reaching home.
I give her gratitude.

-Ed Tajchman

Implications of Sunlight on a Shoot

The way back in is elusive some if not all the time.

When you walk in and out one does not think upon the implications of scarcity.

implications of time being elusive when trying to unlock the Earthen spirit.

Space is expanding everywhere floating in it we all are.

Avalon can be found in the subtleties of a flowers petals.

A not so ordinary exchange on an ordinary afternoon.

A mind sits down for tea, hears the thunder and finds it's heart again.

Illusion of Numinous Fear

Trying to breath. When the fear sets in it is like being caught in the claws of a mighty golden eagle.
How rare though to think upon fearing the thing that keeps one alive. Terrible to be caught in it's clutches, . . .
. . . for so long only to realize they are formed in one's own mind. Spaces between dreams, between lives, between incarnations, between planets. Spaces between notes are the same as between the past and future.
Twitching eyelid relentless. Forget to mention the moment's when one mind echoes so far alone it haunts the spaces in between his vessels.

From the Top as August Ensues

My father taught me to plant and smell flowers,
he taught me to count the different kinds of birds,
All his stories passed through my ears I heard his words,
And those words he played with us in games of
cross and board, teaching us his subtle craft of play
even ancient etymology.

For this I am grateful, maybe fits and moments of anger are forgotten.
Inside us all lives fire and grace and a combination therein.
The human inside of us knowing his roots and his future
held in divine's sight contemplation, fingertips together you feel
the beat.

Feet on the street blisters on the toes how many more
oars will I go through to get down these rapids.
I will find the golden valley with the morning light.
In fall's embrace I know I will feel the scent on my cheek
that will set me free, hold me up when I have given all.

-Ed Tajchman

Drawing and Poem: Trans formative Thought Man

Collapsing polarities keep reforming in the folds surrounding that event. Pounding in the brain, get the new thoughts down when they present. Perpetually caught in the moment just fading away. Staying fraught at the thought of staying slightly ahead , completely different then what was read last autumn. Still knowing that the summer is almost free, so say yes. Who will confess? No more obvious decrees revealing molded archetypes with thoughts ripe,  already before the person out of the inside understands. Eyelid twitches, remembering all the stitches sewn into the skin.

Explode onto the grass, spiders in-between the toes no one knows those peripheral notions waiting like potions inside your brain. Do not refrain there is no stain deep enough that it is not a layer of a prayer in a new way. Day to day through every night reveals no more moons as we drifted without a planet beneath us. But not us only me I realized after much too long. Maybe still some day a heart song. No more wrongs take me back to any place I could know. Only forward is every thing there is that I must go to. So many arms still waiting to receive my chest against them, my words exchanged between our brains, disdain waiting to be resolved inside each others hearts. Deliver unto us a rhythm of raucous laughter how many faces caught in a schism blend their tension like daggers barely piercing the heart. Every last minute of the new day falling away.

Drawing, "Transformative Thought Man" by Ed Tajchman © 2014.

Inter Woven Dreams and Visions

Going home alone again for the last time
Rowing ashore, given a fine line in kind.
Knowing this between here and what I will find.?
Mist rolls through all the hills I have seen in these summer days,
Fist unclenched, finding new thrills, finally felt the rays.
Every golden key, every week an age, a dream in a new sign.
Drawing down molten rhythms in sage and calling them mine.
every place I go I see love through fear in faces of no foes.
Turn around in your places reveal the shining in your toes we all know it bursts forth
through all of our eyeballs, we eat what we sow, through the eyes of the crow
we see what calls us now.

When it dances well it uses everyone around you.
Everything you learn is a mirror of your brother and sister's souls.
Our bodies your souls.
Every body is another piece of our puzzle.
raise the spirit seen in every mistake.
Envision a manifestation of a revelation of love every infinite moment.
Alone home in the cave again you find that sleep and reap the rewards of a life well lived.

Rabbit runs on the peripheral vision,
bird flies right beside you when you ride on the bicycle,
looking up and the sky moves forward.
The clouds surround a living warmth in the chest,
Lizards abound under porches and
not every wizard hidden inside a rock sees true.
Some time despite whine you know a gift far greater then you have given.

-Ed Tajchman

Getting it Out

You cannot make another see what you have inside. Some do and a lot will,
but the one closest cannot. refuses. No one to blame let go of that game.
Cannot lie and say that the magic that is given off comes back in this regime.
Systemic, ordinary, nothing and indifference slowly kills the sparkling vibration.
No sensation despite efforts at personal revelation between dying embers.
When only one can see that the drifting washed away and revealed a new grain.
The cocoon burst and the ghost of who he was she still holds onto but that is nothing.
He cannot remain playing host to the memory of his own ghost when he flies now.
slowly and already long ago it slipped away.
not challenged, not spun around, not taken by hand, not spoken of fondly.
When this is given away and not given back the dancing soul starts to die.
He cannot remain where he does not feel the rain.
He canot refrain from dancing only because she pauses still.
After all this time his light cannot shine any brighter when she holds it too close.
He must be free to let his roots grow and only he knows that way. Thank you I pray.

Toiling for the Self

Endless anticipation winds up in the reflection between sky and sand, where the water gleams.
Sunlight beams, moonlight falls down around my toes and none of it matters when my eyes alone only feel all that there is that I see.
Who is to say a spark between animals cannot make the other stronger. Cannot know what peaceful union is until you how great the only one is. Know all that I am and take it inside. Know it, use it, be it, take care of it, grow it. But it needs a flash sometimes, a touch, a conversation cutting deep into the tingles of the skin, into the brain, a soothing union of two complete dancers. Coming together as two wholes explodes worlds. Project this into your individual ego, basking in the universal gleam.

Projection

Say what I know, know what I want be what I am

No longer giving away the time and energy I crave.

See what I want, am what I need, project the beauty.

Freedom abounds, singing resounds in the soul.

The power won't overcome me I commune with the responders.

Rising together gracefully harnessing the wind.

I know what I want, I am always here to create.

Learn slowly, teach well, be graceful, know your work.

Sacrifice what matters, desire will scatter in the wind.
Know where you came from, be proudest if it's poor.

Mythic Imaginings

Walking up a staircase in the lair of a mad professor.
You see the hair of the woman in front of you, and you want to caress her.
Each and every step is a waking hour in another man's dream.
Day to day worries doing nothing for your own scheme.
Take into space every chance you get, clear the clutter.
I didn't stutter, I remember the old man's name it was Cutter.
The last chance to take her hand happens in autumn's coming.
When you hear that glassy eyed bard's guitar a strumming.
Head for the hills, say yes, do not distress believe, believe.
She has to be pure enough for you to project your own balance.
Come so far to be who you are do not give it away.
Add it to another's time and place for a time and see the joy.
Don't forget that own fire that own soul that own being eternal.

Charcoal Self Portrait from Age 17, Poem July 2014

The self portrait below is me at age 17. Three aspects of self, with the shadow self grabbing from behind. This was a frustrating time for me, like many people. The poem is written and edited July 2014.

"Between The black ink shining as it dries, and the pink morning light fading from your eyes, between the dried root finally cracked and broken, and the hoots from the owl awoken. Between the dried paint on my fingers, and the feint whispers echoing in my soul that linger

A memory stirs of when a few strands of her auburn hair hung over her eyebrow. I hope she remembers to use all ideas from all moments. Seeking the shiners in her every where now.

Whole world optional alone rolls forward, from the breath of a clenched brow when the pharaoh hound returns the favor. The world and everything inside of it seen on the shelf yesterday. Every small moment glued to the walls carefully"

-Ed Tajchman

Charcoal Self Portrait age 17 by Ed Tajchman. 

In Secure Expressions

Bloody fingertips shaking feverishly, caressing a furrowed sweaty brow. Thick head filled with humid nightmares collecting in every crease in the bed-sheet. Pillow soaked on both sides, body drained and frozen cannot rise and face the new tide. No surprise what fears lurk in the empty chamber, not even pieces of the beating pulse that once reared their heads continually can be found.

Deceased phantoms facilitate unwilling progress. So happy to be in the sun now, so free to feel the wind in the face now. No disgrace on the bottom of those shoes, no matter how many piss-filled stone corners of a wasted and hungry world they travel. Whose to say the empty, scared, lonely, hollowed shell of a being he was now, was not a far cry from my ferocious childhood in the end besides.

Wandering and dreaming boy, lost control of his spell, became part of his own creation. Infestation of love misplaced, none to sustain my face now. Cold skin lingers all over my bones. And not for want of pushing all the buttons as carefully and in all the incandescent patterns as possible. Focused and facing all the swinging causeways that life has to offer. None can soften the blows that your own being becomes. Find it and own it. Take care of it.

-Ed Tajchman